


Jack and Jill

by ScaryScarecrows



Category: Red Eye (2005)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, Murder, One Shot Collection, Psychos for Hire, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 17,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Jill went up the hill to plot a little murder...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The After

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! Jill Waters is Kitty Richardson's cousin. Kitty's nuts. Jill...Jill scares me.
> 
> WARNING: Jackson Rippner sometimes gets fandom redemption. NOT HERE. This is not a healthy relationship in any sense of the word. If you or someone you know is in a relationship like this, get out, get some help. There's resources. I can hook you up if you need them, but this is NOT meant to glorify, promote, or encourage this sort of thing. If you came looking for sunshine, get out while you still can.

Glass. Cool, unforgiving glass. He registers the feeling of it against his skin. The radio hums in his ears. The icy silence coming from his left makes him wonder what’s going on. Shouldn’t he be dead by now? Failure is never an option.

“Come on. Out.”

He opens his eyes to see the apartment. Home. If he can call it home.

“Jackson.”

Out. Right.

Everything protests as he stumbles out of the car. Why isn’t he dead?

The elevator nearly knocks him off his feet on the way up. Then it’s a Twilight Zone-esque hallway and then bed. Jesus.

He can hear her moving around. She’s probably taking off her shoes and jewellery, and unbuttoning her shirt, maybe slipping out of her skirt. Always on the move. She’s always on the move, always has been.

“You owe me, Jack.” she says from the dresser. “I don’t like begging, you know that. And that’s exactly what I had to do to save your ass because _your_ emotions got in the way.” Yes, yes, there’s no need to rub it in. “Never again.”

He cracks his eyes open and blinks a few times to try and clear his vision. Blinking doesn’t do shit and he stops. Does speaking still hurt, he wonders? Only one way to find out.

“Jill.”

“Don’t.” It didn’t hurt as bad that time. That’s something. “Just be quiet and go to sleep.”

The left-hand side of the bed sinks down a bit and he feels her start untying his shoelaces.

“I don’t know why I bother with you.” she says. “Anyone with half a brain would have left you in the hospital.”

He blinks again. Everything’s still blurry.

“Jill…”

“I said not to talk.”

His shoes slip off and she starts unbuttoning his shirt. He watches her fingers-she’s got so damn many, when did that happen?-move from button to button.

“You could have gotten us both shot.” she says. “Or worse. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

She eases the shirt off and goes to work on his pants. He says nothing.

“It turned out fine in the end, by the way. Everything’s taken care of. All you got out of this was a firm reprimand.”

And a completely shattered ego. Not to mention all the bumps, bruises, and puncture wounds. What kind of idiot stabs someone with a pen, anyway? A fucking Frankenstein’s Monster pen! He wonders if that left a scar.

She redresses him and he feels a little like a doll. An oversized, broken doll that came from a thrift shop.

“Go to sleep, Jackson.”

Where is she going? She went through all that trouble and she’s just going to leave?

“Stay.”

“I’m going to shower.”

And that’s the end of that.

* * *

He thought he could sleep. He dozed a little, but it’s not the same thing.

The shower shuts off and he hears her come back ten minutes later. Maybe she’ll have calmed down by now.

“Jill?”

“Stop talking.” Her voice is softer. Good. “I thought I told you to go to sleep.”

“Can’t sleep.”

She’s probably glaring at him. Too bad. How else is he supposed to communicate?

“I mean it. Be quiet and go to sleep.”

“Come here?”

“Jackson…”

He looks up at her, hoping he looks somewhat pathetic. If he’s doing it right, she’ll come over. That look can get him almost anything with her-it got him a date, anyway. It didn’t get her into bed as soon as he would have liked, but hey. You can’t have everything.

“Fine.” Perfect. “But shut up, you sound like nails on a chalkboard.”

That’s not his fault. Blame the pen.

He hears the clicking of the remote and the low whine of the television turning on. The M*A*S*H theme reaches his ears and he yawns. He’s tired, he’ll admit to that.

She’s warm. He waits for her to get comfortable before settling down against her side.

“Stop moving, you’ll reopen something.”

She’s still a little upset, then. Fine. She’ll get over it eventually.

“Sorry.”

“Liar.”

He’s not as sorry as he thinks he should be, but he is sorry.

A little.

“Go to sleep. You’re going to need it.”

He toys with a loose thread on the blanket. She slides her fingers under his and makes him stop.

“What happened?”

“Plan B and a borrowed post office uniform.”

“Mm?”

“Later. Stop talking or I’ll knock you out.”

She’ll do it, too. He knows that only too well.

He shrugs-ow-and closes his eyes again.

THE END


	2. The During

“What’s with the scarf?”

Really? It’s there for a reason-he wouldn’t be caught dead in it otherwise.

“Oi. Answer the question.”

He tosses the paper with the address at her and points.

“Silent treatment?”

“Pen.” he rasps. She cringes.

“Never mind. Shut up. And if you touch that radio I’ll throw you out of here so fast your ass will have roadburns.”

He keeps his hands safely in his lap. If anyone can break the speed limits and get away with it, it’ll be Jill. She’s done it before, back in England.

“This is a bad idea.”

He grips her wrist hard enough to hurt and taps the paper again. She smacks him.

“Manhandle me again, _Jack_ , and you’ll wish your ass had roadburns.”

It got his point across, didn’t it?

“Good boy.”

He glares at her.

“Put your seatbelt on and don’t look at the speedometer.”

He taps the paper one more time. The job is over, he’s well aware of that, but he might as well drag Miss Pen-is-Mightier-Than-the-Sword down with him.

“I’m throwing you under the bus when they find out.”

Fine. As long as she’ll drive him.

THE END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. The Before

“Want to go for dinner sometime?”

She looks at him, sizing him up, and then she takes hold of his shirt. He’s not expecting her to kiss him, but he sure as hell isn’t about to complain.

Her lips move to his ear.

“No.”

Then she shoves him back and walks back to her friends. He rubs the back of his head and wonders how many people can say they got a kiss like that but no date and no sex.

“What about tomorrow?” he calls after her.

He gets no answer.

* * *

They’re at a club. He snuck in here. She probably did, too. Normally he knows enough to cut his losses, but he can’t forget their last encounter.

“Hello.”

“You again. One per customer, sweetie.”

“Feel like dancing?”

“No.”

“What about a drink?”

“Are you stalking me?”

“No…”

“Good. And no.”

“Can I at least get a name?”

“I don’t know yours.”

He’d give it to her, honest, but one of her friends drags her away before he can. Dammit.

* * *

It’s not the same. It’s just not the same at all.

The girl in his lap tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him up against her. He’s bored. This was too easy.

His eyes catch the other one, the nameless one. The fun one. She grins at him, takes a sip of her drink, and disappears into the shadows.

This just isn’t the same at all.

* * *

It’s raining. He knows he should go inside, but his roommate picked up a couple of girls and he’s not in the mood for the noise.

“Jill Waters.”

Seriously? He wants to crack a joke, but he’ll be good.

“Jackson.”

“Jack?”

“Jackson.” he says again.

“No last name?”

“Rippner.”

She giggles.

“Poor you.” She walks around him, one finger running along his spine. “Well, Jackson Rippner, you might want to go in before you get hypothermia.”

“Wait!”

“Mm?”

“Would you like to go for dinner sometime?”

“We’ll see.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him with a useless umbrella and a name.

He might be getting somewhere with her.

* * *

“Hello again.”

She’s back. Damn these small towns. He feels for anyone who has a nasty break-up in this place.

“I’m here on a bet.”

A bet?

“What sort of bet?”

“That your eyes aren’t that colour.”

“They are.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

She looks at him and grins. It’s a predatory grin and he wonders who is chasing who.

“That’s interesting. Good night, Jackson Rippner.”

She leans over and kisses him-on the cheek this time, unfortunately-before walking back to her friends.

* * *

“Please?”

“I didn’t peg you for the begging type.”

He’s not. This is an exception.

“Just once.”

“Just once.”

He nods. After a minute, he adopts a pleading expression. That should do it. It works on everyone else.

“Seven thirty.” she says. “Don’t be late.”

“To where?”

“Right here.” She’s already walking away. “Don’t forget.”

As if.

THE END


	4. Dysfunctional

His hands are falling asleep.

This is what he gets, he supposes, for trying to win an argument.

_“Damn it, Jill, what are you trying to pull?”_

_“Get your hands off me, Jack!”_

_He’d tossed her onto the bed at some point. She’d just laid there, laughing at him._

_“You won’t hurt me, Jack.” she said. “I know you too well.”_

_God, he hates that nickname. She knows it, too._

_“Or maybe you will. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”_

_He’d pinned her at that. There had been a brief staring contest before she grabbed his tie and tugged him down the rest of the way._

_“But you won’t go through with it.”_

_No. But he could damn well entertain the idea._

_At some point they’d rolled over and she’d taken the tie off. Fine. All was forgiven…_

_Until he found his hands tied to the headboard. Fuck._

_“You can’t beat me, Jack.” she said. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Hope the building doesn’t catch on fire.”_

That was an hour ago. She hasn’t come back and he can’t get the knots undone. Damn.

He lets his head drop back and looks at the ceiling. At least he got to keep his clothes on this time.

Where is she? She’s not just going to leave him here, is she? He knows she was pissed, but…

She’ll be back. She always is. She might not release him for another hour, but she’ll do it eventually and everything will go back to normal.

Well, until the next time.

THE END


	5. Morals

Jackson fell back on the bed, breathing heavily and soaked in sweat. The woman beside him groaned and murmured, “That was good.”

He shrugged. He didn’t care if she thought that was good or not. She didn’t even know his real name. She’d been screaming for some guy called Max when she came. Max Rage, a nice librarian visiting town for a conference.

He wondered what Jill was doing, if she was cuddled up to some guy. Would she tell him about this one? Would he tell her about the woman pressed up against his chest right now?

“Do you have any more condoms?” she breathed, leaning up to brush a kiss against his neck.

“No.”

“I’m on the pill.”

“Maybe later.”

He did have _some_ morals, after all. STDs were serious business.

“I’m going to take a nap.”

“Fine.”

She rubbed up against him and closed her eyes.

* * *

Jill sighed and lay back against the pillows, brushing her fingers against the man’s back. This was boring. Besides, he made far too much noise. Really, how often did someone need to tell her how hot she was?

She finally shoved him off and slipped out of bed. This one had been a dud. It happened. It was time to go home, though, and get comfortable. Maybe Jackson was back. Maybe he wasn’t. Did it really matter anyway?

She wondered if he’d actually gone out to get a drink or if he was with some woman. It wouldn’t be the first time. Both of them were happy to say it was for work, at first, and then the lies just came so naturally. It wasn’t cheating if they both knew about it. Technically.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You’re not staying the night?”

“No.”

“Mm.” He groaned and rolled over. “You were incredible.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

* * *

“Hi, Jilly.”

“Hullo, Jack.”

Both hated those nicknames.

“How was your drink?”

“Fine. How was your shopping trip?”

“Disappointing.”

Oh, such sweet lies.

She climbed into bed with him, quietly ignoring the fact that he’d showered when he got home. He was probably ignoring the fact that she had done the same.

“Disappointing, hm?”

“Yeah.” His hands moved up, undoing the buttons of her nightshirt. “Fine, huh?”

“I’ve had worse.” He gave her a quick kiss. “But I’ve had better.”

THE END


	6. Dislikes

Jackson Rippner had a very long list of dislikes. He didn’t care for sugared coffee, stakeouts, or-and this was a new addition-novelty pens. And that was just the beginning. But there was one thing that he only disliked sometimes, and that was sharing. Specifically, sharing Jill.

Most of the time he had no problem with it. But every so often he liked to keep her to himself. Like tonight. Once Kevin got here they were going to go back to the hotel and enjoy a nice night in. At least, he hoped they were. Sometimes those ‘nice nights in’ turned into a sparring match over the remote. He still had bruises from the last one. So did she, if the scarf was any indicator.

He was lounging on the bar stool, swirling a vodka-infused something, and watching their latest toy. The poor sap had hit on no less than six women so far, and all of them had declined. Jackson was amused.

His amusement faded when he spotted an old _friend_ of Jill’s on the other side of the pub. He’d been aware of the risks of coming to England, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Said friend spotted them-or Jill, anyway-and sauntered over. He was very drunk. Hopefully he wasn’t a crier. Jackson had no patience for criers.

“Jill!”

She didn’t look thrilled. Good.

“Frank.”

“It’s been so long! Heard you moved to America.”

“Yes.”

“What d’you say we go to my place? For old times’ sake?”

“Can’t.”

“Aw, Jill…”

“She said she can’t.” Jackson said coldly. “Didn’t you hear her the first time?”

Well, there went the nice night in. She was going to be furious at being ‘rescued’.

“Jackson…” she said softly. He ignored her.

“Come along, you’ve had enough.”

“Hey, what’re you playing at?”

It was an effort to manhandle the drunk to the door, but he quelled any funny looks with a, “Friend’s had too much to drink, I’m getting him a cab.”

Angry Jill or not, he’d been itching for an excuse to get out of there. Drunk people annoyed him.

He dropped the idiot in an alley and considered taking a knife to him. It would rather poetic if he did-Jackson Rippner, in an alley, slashing someone into little pieces. He could even take an ear or something. Didn’t Jack the Ripper take an ear once?

No, he would restrain himself. About the death, anyway. The agency wouldn’t be happy if they traced this to him, and he was on thin ice already. But he would be happy to take the ear.

He dropped it twice before finally giving up and tossing it into the bins. It would have smelled, anyway, and what would he have done with it?

Kevin had arrived in his absence. Good. He slipped up behind Jill and breathed, “Your place or mine?”

THE END


	7. Hospital

“Jackson, you idiot.”

Bright blue eyes glared up at her. She was sure he’d complain if he was allowed to talk.

“We had a plan. We had a plan, and you royally fucked it up. And you’re damn lucky I’m at least a little fond of you.” He cocked his head, looking confused. “I had to sleep with the boss to keep you from ending up at the bottom of the Thames.” He was doped up, he wouldn’t remember. And he wouldn’t say anything if he did. He knew better.

“Just thought you’d like to know.”

He flapped his hands at her and she rolled her eyes.

“If one word comes out of your mouth before the doctors say you’re allowed, you won’t speak ever again.” she warned. “Do you understand that?”

He frowned but kept his mouth shut. Good boy.

“I’ll be back in a little while. I have to clean up.”

She leaned down to kiss his forehead before grabbing her purse from the nightstand.

“Hey.”

“What did I just tell you? Shut up!”

He ignored her and beckoned her over.

“Did you actually sleep with him?”

“I will never feel clean again. Be grateful.” She paused. “Now stop talking, please, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

“Thanks, Jill.”

“Shut _up_. Although…post office worker or news reporter?”

“Post office.”

“Ta.” She gave him another kiss on the forehead. “Now really do shut up, or a pen through the throat will be the least of your problems.”

“Oh?”

“I was thinking about calling my cousin. Her boyfriend makes a living driving people insane. See you later.”

It probably said something about her when she relished the look of slight panic on his face.

THE END


	8. Dance With the Devil

“May I have this dance, Miss Waters?”

“You may, Mr. Rippner.”

Chilly hands wrap around hers and they move ever closer to their target. It’s rare that they have an assignment together these days. It’s slightly stressful, actually. So much pressure to be extra-good, to one-up him. Her only consolation is that he’s feeling the same pressure-more, maybe, since the Plane Incident.

“I know about the man in Reno.”

“And I know about the girl in Paris.”

“Do you.”

“Quite a bit, actually.” Just keep smiling, don’t attract any unnecessary attention. “The man in Reno is an ex, by the way. He had a shoe thing.”

“My apologies.”

Anyone else might have missed the smug smirk in his eyes.

“What about the one in London?”

Dammit. She’d been hoping he didn’t know about that one.

“Nice and mute.” Unlike someone she knows. “Jealous?”

“Of course.” She feels the blade of a knife pressed gently against her spine. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“Who said I was trying to be?”

“One nick and I could cut your spinal cord.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

“That’s not what you’re upset about.”

“No.” The song changes. They pass the refreshments table and she grabs a paring knife from the sideboard. “What if I told you a little bird told me you wanted me dead?”

“I’d tell you that you’re insane.” She adjusts her hold on the knife and lets the blade dig into his skin. “You know me better than that. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“Is that so? That bout of food poisoning was particularly nasty.”

“Yes, it was.” The knife digs a little deeper into her back. If he wrecks this dress, she _will_ kill him. “I told you not to get the sweet-and-sour pork from that Chinese place.”

She digs her own knife just a touch deeper into his neck. This is incredibly awkward.

“Tell me the truth, Jill.”

“I am, Jackson.”

She catches a flash of distrust in his eyes, but it’s gone in seconds. The knife slips back into his sleeve and she returns the favour.

“You’d better be.”

THE END

**  
**

****


	9. December

It was cold, wet, there was nothing on the radio except Christmas music, and their target had a man over. This. Was. _Boring._

Normally stakeout work wasn’t so bad. It was better than being shot at and besides, it gave him an excuse to drink lots of Starbucks. But for some reason, it wasn’t working this time. He wanted to go home and play Mario Brothers or something. Anything but sit in the cold car, desperately seeking something besides ‘Come, All Ye Faithful’.

The drapes are still down and he wonders when Smith is going to show up. He’s late. He’s always late. This is the last time he does a favour for Smith, the very last.

God, it’s cold in here! Forget the Mario Brothers-a nightcap sounds really nice.

There’s movement in the house and he glances up, hoping she’s going to sleep. The man is leaving. Great. Now where the hell is Smith?

Finally! Where has he been all night? Probably the nightclub down the street, sorry little…humph.

Pleasantries and information are exchanged and he starts home, looking forward to that nightcap. If he asks _very_ nicely, maybe Jill will make it for him.

He doesn’t see Jill when he gets home, but the shower’s running. Fine. He’ll make his own nightcap. Damn.

He’s settled on the couch, being horribly beaten by Bowser when the shower shuts off. Five minutes later, his nightcap is gone and Jill has taken up most of the couch.

“Having trouble?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

She yawns.

“You were late.”

“Smith was late.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I found something while you were out.”

“Oh?”

_Please don’t be the teddy bear, please don’t be the teddy bear…_

“When you’re done losing, I’ll show you.” She gives him a _very_ predatory grin. “Give you a hint: it’s violet and it’ll warm you up.”

“Five minutes.”

“Three.”

Three is fine.

THE END


	10. Need

He lies on his back, blue eyes staring at a dark patch of the ceiling. Beside him, she’s asleep. Or not-he doesn’t really care.

He could kill her, right here, right now. He could so easily slit her throat and walk away, leaving no trace that anyone had been here with her. He’s got the means, the motive…but not the desire. Not really.

He doesn’t love her. _Love_ is for fools with too much time on their hands. He might have been infatuated with her once upon a time, but nothing more than that. But even now, with all his options, he needs her.

Could be the sex, he muses. Even though it’s a terrible idea, she’s the only person he trusts to tie him to the headboard. Even if she leaves, she’ll be back. She always comes back.

Could be sentiment. In a life of constant change, it’s nice to have something that stays the same.

Could be the challenge. She never makes things easy for him. Dinner? That’s a half-hour massage. Bring him an extra towel? He’ll have to catch her first. Sometimes it’s not fair. It’s entertaining, but it’s not fair.

All the same, if it comes down to it, he will not hesitate to strangle her and throw her in the Thames.

THE END


	11. Risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to “Need”. Because this is a seriously fucked-up relationship. If you can call it a relationship…

 

She hugs her pillow and stares at a spot on the wall. He’s asleep by now, she guesses. She hopes so. Every time they’re awake at a late hour together, things happen. She’s tired. She doesn’t want things to happen tonight.

She could kill him. Put a bullet in his head and destroy that unfairly pretty face. She’d get away with it, too. If she did get caught-since she’s on ‘what ifs’ here-she’d get off. Woman scorned and all that.

Nah. It’s not worth it. Besides, she’s fond of him. A little. He’s fun to toy with. She’ll give it to him for not being boring. She hates boring.

She’s not in love with him. She loves the idea of flirting with danger, of flirting with death, but she’s not in love with him. She would miss him if something became of him, but probably not for long. She certainly wouldn’t become a ball of tears over him. And if it came to it, she’d pull the trigger.

But she needs him, in a weird way. She likes the consistent unpredictability, the _risk_. Besides, most people wouldn’t let her tie them up and leave for an hour and a half.

He yawns-crap, he’s not asleep-and murmurs, “Jill?”

She doesn’t say anything. He moves a bit and doesn’t speak again. Good.

A cool breeze comes in through the window and she closes her eyes. Hopefully she’ll wake up in the morning, but that’s always the risk she takes.

THE END

**  
**

****


	12. Emotional, or; Male-Driven, Fact-Based Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the off chance that anyone found out about the pen, I bet they never let him forget it. I wouldn’t. At least, until I was killed. So…about five minutes. Worth it.

Women are emotional. They just are. It’s not their fault, exactly, but they are. Threaten a random two year-old and they crumble into little pieces.

He likes to look at things through a logical viewpoint. It’s not his kid. Even if it were, crying wouldn’t help.

He used to use this to win arguments with Jill. Unfortunately, The Pen Incident has ruined that completely. It doesn’t matter how logical his argument is-she just shuts him down with a simple, “Who got stabbed in the throat with a pen?”

And he has nothing to say to that. Nothing. It’s true. He threw a fit and got stabbed in the throat with a goddamn pen. The first thing she said when she found out was, “The pen really is mightier than the sword.”

He would have given her a nice purple necklace if he hadn’t been confined to a hospital bed.

All the same, it does rather prove his point. Emotions get you stabbed.

THE END

**  
**

****


	13. Normal

Theirs isn’t exactly a normal relationship. In all honesty, most people looking in would be horrified. To be fair, most people are sane, and don’t find it at all funny when someone gets stabbed with a pen, or gets beaten into unconsciousness with a duck-headed fire poker.

But every so often, normal things happen. They cook together-nothing fancy, not after the disaster with the blowtorch-they watch documentaries, they shop for curtains.

Okay, maybe most people don’t shop for curtains because the last set got bloodstained. But it still counts.

Right now, for instance, the casual observer would think nothing was out of place. The curtains are clean, the lamp shows no signs of having been used as a weapon, and any handcuffs and knives are hidden away.

On the couch (black, easier to hide any questionable marks that way) sit two people. Right now, with one of them reading and the other asleep, there is no indicator that anything is wrong with them. Looking at them, they look harmless. Even if they _were_ inclined to kill you, surely you could fight them off.

She’s immersed in a _New York Times_ bestseller (it sucks, but at least she can say that she read it and hated it). One hand holds the paperback, and the other hand is resting on the man’s head. He’s apparently asleep, his hand hanging off the couch, his fingers brushing the (black) rug below.

Perfectly normal.

Unfortunately, the people on the couch are not normal, not at all. She’s happy to slip a bit of cyanide into your nightcap, but she’s not above beating you unconscious with a bat should it come to that. He’s a lousy shot, but it doesn’t matter. That’s what knives are for. He’s often considered keeping a souvenir, like his namesake, but they’re messy and keeping a pickled ear is too strange, even for him.

He moves, rolling over and winding up with a palm on his face.

“Jill.”

“I’m reading.”

“Your palm is by my mouth.”

“I’m reading. Talk again and I’ll rip your tongue out.”

He shoves her hand up and gets flicked on the forehead.

“Thanks.”

“I’m reading. Shut up.”

He huffs and happens to see a spot of dried blood on the ceiling. Oops. Maybe they should have tried strangling their would-be assassin, rather than…yeah.

Oh, well. They’ll get it tomorrow.

Outside, the rain falls down.

THE END


	14. Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from a scene in Red Lights-the scene that proves that Dr. Matheson is nicer than me.

 

She made him drive. Well, they flipped a coin, and he lost. So…she made him drive.

He’s not pleased. He didn’t want to drive. He doesn’t like to drive. Every time he has to drive, some blonde in a convertible wants to race.

Every. Single. Time.

But here he is, sitting at the wheel, grudgingly going the speed limit. And she gets to be asleep.

That’s not fair at all.

“Jill.” She doesn’t move. “Jill.” There. She’s awake a bit now. “Jill.”

“What.”

“You should get some sleep.”

The look she gives him is scathing. Worth it.

“You woke me up for that?”

“Yes.”

“If you wake me up for something like that again, I will throw you out and run you over. And I will not be sorry.”

No, she won’t. Maybe it’s best to shut up for the rest of the drive.

But that was still worth it.

THE END


	15. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *snickers* I couldn’t help it.

“I can’t believe you booked us a flight at this hour, Jill.”

“I know.”

“You are a sadist.”

“Yeah, well…you know. Sorry.”

“No.”

She batted her eyelashes at him and gave him an absolutely _sickening_ smile.

“I am. I promise.”

“Red eye flight…you are horrible.”

“I asked you if you minded. You said you didn’t.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of weeks ago…”

_“Jill.”_

“You might have been otherwise occupied…”

He grumbled something that did not bear repeating and settled down in his seat. This was on purpose. He knew it was on purpose.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, there was a blonde (always the blondes!) that wanted a bellhop. Call him paranoid, but he had to wonder if Jill had hired her.

“She’s pretty.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Don’t call attention to yourself.”

Humph. One of these days, it might be worth his while to get rid of her, either with a nice, slow demise (disembowelment?) or a sudden attack (maybe a rain of knife slashes…).

Maybe. More likely, though, it would be more effort than he cared to expend. She’d probably inflict permanent damage, even if he was successful.

“If I end this flight stabbed, bleeding, bruised, or _paper cut_ …”

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s two hours. Just go to sleep.”

After the last time? Ha! He’d be staying right there, in his window seat (they had a brief quarrel over who got it), entertaining the notion of strangling her with the telephone cord.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, you’re being silly. What could I possibly do to you?”

Besides the obvious, at least once they’d had the world’s worst thumb war and ended up with sprained or bruised digits.

He gave her a dark look and settled into his seat, grumbling. Why did they have to go to Gotham, anyway? He hated Gotham. Besides, Jill’s cousin was a nut and he was a little creeped out by the fact that she was dating his doppelgänger.

Okay, very creeped out. It didn’t help that the guy had a split personality.

Weirdo.

Jill was playing Candy Crush-he’d deleted his, it was a cheating bastard game, anyway-and he watched her lose a few times before closing his eyes.

Red eye flight. He’d have to do something to even this out.

THE END

**  
**

****


	16. Watch

“Jackson?” He groans and moves his head away from her voice. She frowns and moves it back. “Hey. Come on.”

He doesn’t wake.

To be horribly selfish, she likes him much better when he’s sick. He’s quiet, first of all, and he looks like crap. It can be damaging to one’s self-esteem when one’s boyfriend looks better with less effort.

Although, she admits begrudgingly, he’s still cute when he’s sick. Or he would be, if she weren’t still pissed at him for using the rest of her shampoo without asking.

 _FINE._ He’s cute regardless.

Bastard.

“Jackson.” She shakes him and he opens his eyes halfway. “Wake up.”

“What do you want.”

What does she want? Quite frankly, the fact that he’s incredibly helpless and innocent-looking makes her want to dig out that leather corset and the handcuffs. But she can’t. She mustn’t.

“How are you feeling?”

His eyes narrow and she has the feeling that he’d love to slap her.

“Tired.”

“You need to take your antibiotics. You’re already half an hour late.”

He closes his eyes again.

“Horse pills.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“I shall shove them down your throat if you can’t behave.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together when she opens the bottle. “Jackson, no arguing. Open up.”

He shakes his head. She debates all the nice ways she could make him take them-bribery, jelly, ice cream-and settles on something else entirely.

She dumps two of the pills-to be fair, they are quite large-into her hand, closes the bottle, and seats herself on the bed beside him.

“All right, then. You don’t have to take them right now.”

“Tha’s good.” He’s already drifting off. Hopefully he doesn’t choke…she’s dealing with a mostly-healed sprained ankle and doesn’t think she can get rid of the body easily. “G’night, then…”

She just stays there, stroking his hair, until he’s almost asleep. Then she shoves the pills in his mouth and moves out of his reach. He sits up, sputtering, and downs half the water bottle.

“Good boy.”

“You bitch.”

“I told you to take them.”

He sinks back down, wheezing, and pulls the blanket back up to his neck.

“Go to hell.”

“Sweet dreams.” She blows him a kiss and makes her way to the bathroom. She’s earned a nice bubble bath today.

THE END


	17. Fit to be Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suggestiveness (nothing graphic, but nothing exactly subtle, either) mild violence, and general dickery. OH: I have a nail polish colour called ‘Red Eye’. Pretty colour, but…god, what an awful name for a polish. What the hell?

He finally rolls off of her, reaching down for a bathrobe. He takes the blindfold off-thank god the lights are still dim, she couldn’t handle the brightness-but he makes no move to reach for the keys. That’s nothing new-besides, she really doesn’t feel up to moving.

Although it is kind of cold, lying here naked and sweaty like this.

“This is new.” A long finger brushes across a slowly-healing slash under her left breast.

“Nearly had an accident.”

“Nearly had a tragedy.” He stretches out beside her. She can hear the keys jingling in the pocket of his robe. “You look comfortable.”

“I’m cold, actually.”

“I’m sure you are.”

She’ll be damned before she outright asks him to let her up. He won’t, anyway, but he might leave the keys just out of her reach. He’s done that before.

Then again, she’s left him there while she went shopping, so…

“I could feasibly remove your kidneys.” he says, unclasping one of his knives. “You being nice and worn out…and confined.”

He could. He may well try it one of these days. Although by now she’s mostly sure he won’t kill her. Mostly. Seventy-five percent sure, anyway.

“Yes.”

“Or your intestines.” he continues, ghosting the blade along her abdomen. “If I was careful I wouldn’t slice them open.”

She shrugs, trying to look calm. She _is_ calm, mostly.

And slightly aroused.

Okay, _very_ aroused.

“Or perhaps I’d keep your heart instead.” He jerks the blade up and away, leaving a small scratch along her breastbone. “I’d have to shatter your ribcage for it…but it might be nice to have in a jar.” He folds the knife up and gives her that unfairly sexy crooked smile. “May I?”

“You’ve already got it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” If these cuffs gave her a little more leeway, she’d grab that ratty robe of his and make him come down to her level.

“You’re flushed. Are you coming down with something?”

“Could be serious.”

“Oh?”

“I think there’s only one known cure.”

He gives her another smirk.

“I see.”

“You don’t want me to die, do you?”

He could still walk away. They’ve both done that to each other. More than once, for that matter.

“I suppose I don’t.” He sounds _so_ put-upon. Poor _baby_. “You’ll have to cooperate.”

What’s the fun in that?

THE END

**  
**

****


	18. Drugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Office workers build towers out of furniture. These people…have different teamwork exercises.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Not only were they handcuffed together-training exercise-they’d given her a nice dose of _some_ strong sedative. He hadn’t realised this at first. To be honest, he’d only realised it when she went down and nearly pulled his arm out of its socket.

“You would have to be drugged.”

“Fuck you.”

He would, but she’s incapacitated. Shame.

“Come on. Get up.”

She doesn’t even try. She just sits there-he did manage to yank her upright, at least-staring at nothing. If this were real, he’d cut her hand off, but something tells him they won’t like that solution.

He hates the idiots that think ‘teamwork’ is an important thing to practice. Damned pencil-pushers…never set one foot out of their office…

Never mind.

He gets a better grip on her-no need to dislocate anything, then she’ll be impossible to work with-and hauls her to her feet. She nearly goes down again and ends up flopped against his chest instead.

Well. At least she’s still sort of standing. It’s something.

This makes no sense. What kind of moron handcuffs their-fairly dangerous-captives together, anyway? When will this ever happen in real life? Never, that’s when. Maybe in Gotham, though…nah. They have those masked maniacs like Jill’s cousin’s boyfriend, they know how to handle dangerous individuals.

“You are the most inconvenient…”

She moves, but whether she’s falling down or trying to kick him in the shin is a mystery to him.

“Sod off.”

He drags her behind a stack of boxes and looks for something to pick the lock. She’s on her own.

“You’re pretty.”

“You’re drugged.”

“Pretty.” she says again. If his free hand wasn’t looking for a lockpick, it would be against his face.

“Sure.”

“You have creepy eyes, though.”

He’s not sure if that’s a compliment or not.

“Just shut up, Jill.”

“Night.”

A gunshot-a blank, but still-rings out and he ducks down, hoping she won’t decide to make any more noise.

They need to make it out of the warehouse and onto the beach. The pencil-pushers have declared that to be where they’d be picked up in the field. Ugh…

He waits for the footsteps to be on the other side of the warehouse before pulling her up again and dragging her towards the now-open door.

When this is over, he’ll be having a long talk with his employers about willing suspension of disbelief.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, he won’t.


	19. Feverish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after ‘Watch’. They were a little more cooperative this time.

When she gets out of the shower, he’s passed out cold, the blankets pooled around his waist and his shirt plastered to his body.

She could so very easily kill him now, she thinks. He wouldn’t even realise it…but that would take the feeling of achievement out of it. If she were to kill him, she’d rather _make_ him helpless-handcuff him to the bed or something. His being sick, well…that would be cheating.

He’s very warm. She should wake him up, get him into a lukewarm bath, but…nah. He’s a grown-up, he can take care of himself.

Unless there’s pens involved, of course.

She pulls the shirt off of him and tosses it into the corner. He felt floppy when she pulled it off, but now she can see that he’s a little ball of tenseness. Probably from chills.

Dammit. She hates it when he’s naturally helpless. She wants to jump him and can’t. Life is so unfair…

Just to see what he’ll do, she tries poking his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch-definitely out cold, then. She could probably drag him off the bed and he wouldn’t notice. What’s in those pills, anyway? And can they be dissolved? She doesn’t trust him not to drug her at some point. He’s never done it before, but still.

Never mind. He has to take them all, doctor’s orders. She’s safe.

She throws herself on the bed beside him and wonders if Kitty’s in Arkham. Probably not-it’s October and she’s usually out for October. She needs to call in December and see if she’s in. Maybe they can meet for New Year’s.

Soo bored…

Well…

If she accidentally wakes him up…no, she really shouldn’t.

He shivers and tries to burrow under blankets that are no longer there. He really is tense…

She’ll start, she decides, at his neck and work her way down. He’d better be grateful for this. She could be doing something more fun. Like shopping. That new Coach outlet just opened up, after all.

Maybe later. She’ll consider it payment for being so nice to him, especially since he’d probably abandon her with instructions to take pills and call an ambulance if her fever got too high.

Wow, he must be tired-she’s on his shoulders now and he hasn’t even _twitched…_ where’d he get that? She doesn’t remember that.

Huh. Looks like an old knife wound. Butcher knife…ouch. That sucks.

She digs her palms against his back. _That_ gets a reaction out of him-a soft moan and a low, “Jill?”

She freezes. Is he up? If he’s up he can take a shower.

No, no, he’s not up. Or if he was, he’s not now.

She really needs to make an appointment with her masseuse. That man has the hands of God, he really does…shame he’s on the other bus. His boyfriend must be a lucky man. Are they married yet? They were talking about going somewhere to get married…

She’s just reached his lower back when he rolls over, blinking sleepily at the light.

“Jill.”

“Morning.” She leaves her hands on his stomach. “Have a nice nap?”

“Mm.”

“You look like shit.” Not enough, but she’ll take it.

“Thanks.” He yawns and reaches for his water bottle. “How long was I asleep?”

“Forty-five minutes, maybe. Why? Paranoid?”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you.”

“Sure.” She pats his head. “Maybe go back to sleep. You were nice then.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. You were quiet. And not, um, staring. Please blink now.”

He grins and rolls over again.

“That felt really nice, actually.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“Continue?”

“Nope.” She swings her legs off the bed. “Take a shower. It’ll perk you right up.”

“Please?”

No. No, no, he did not just use the Tone. Please, for the love of god…he used the Tone.

Life really is unfair.

 _“Fine.”_ she grouses. “This _one_ time.”

She’ll be using this against him, make no mistake.

“Thank you, Jill.”

“I expect compensation.”

“Mm.”

“I’m going shopping after this. I promise to thank you when I get back with my present.”

He doesn’t say anything apart from, “Lower, please.”

One of these days…

THE END


	20. FMLYHM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the Seether song. (Stands for ‘fuck me like you hate me’. Guess they wouldn’t allow that on the jewel case?) Thought it suited them, given their…habits. Hell, they’d probably be BFFs with Zsasz, but that body count would be awfully high, so let’s not go there.

It’s been a long job. Long hours spent in a car-then a delay, thanks to weather-before the old bastard finally did as he was told. He’s been taken out-can’t leave evidence, after all. As far as anyone who knows him is concerned, he had a heart attack on the train. Tragedy. (Modern medicine is amazing.)

It’s over now, but they’re both on edge. There’s a reason they don’t work together often-it’s like putting a pair of jungle cats in a cage together. They’ll tolerate each other, but sooner or later there’s bound to be a quarrel.

They’re not sure what started it. Maybe it was cleaning his knife for the thirtieth time. Or maybe it was redoing her ponytail for the fortieth. Either way, they’re both now bruised and a little bit bloody-those sharp table edges, ouch-and he’s got her pinned against the wall, fingers just a bit too tight around her throat, her knife pressed a bit too hard against his stomach. Both are breathing hard.

“You gonna kill me, Jack?” She doesn’t even try to move his hand. There’s no point. “Go ahead. I’ve got time to take you with me.”

“Then do it.” He could rip the knife from her hand, but it’s not worth the slashes he’ll get doing it. “Go ahead.”

Neither moves for a long moment, then there’s a flurry of ‘remove clothes without giving up what leverage I have’. It’s not particularly successful-shirts unbuttoned, zippers undone, and that’s about it. But it’s enough, as their bloody, gasping kisses will attest. More than enough.

When it’s over, they’re bleeding again, slick with sweat and out of breath. There’s no winner here. But she withdraws her knife and he loosens his fingers and they step away from the wall.

No words are said. They share a shower, but it’s more because they’re both about to drop and sparring for first shower is not worth it right now. When the water goes cold, they get out and fall into bed. They’re out for maybe two hours before a phone rings.

“Rippner.” She rolls over. Her throat’s swollen. He’s got a beauty of a shiner, though-she’ll consider them even. “No, sir. No, sir. First thing in the morning.”

He hangs up and settles back under the sheets.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“I think he was checking to make sure we didn’t kill each other.” he says. “But we’re wanted at work in the morning. Debriefing.”

Fine. But she’s sleeping now, and if that phone rings again, it’s going over the balcony, and him after it.

“G’night, Jackson.”

Cool fingers stroke the back of her neck before moving down to that spot between her shoulders.

“Good night, Jill.”

THE END


	21. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if Jill’s lipstick is a real colour. (Only less deadly, of course.) It could be, what with the makeup industry’s bad-naming-habits. (Red Eye? Leap Flog? Come on.)

The man has no idea what he’s done or why he’s here, in this impersonal hotel room. He’s thinking he must have wronged the two psychos that brought him here, but he doesn’t dare ask.

They drugged his drink, he knows that-he was chatting to the woman, and then…then the man was helping him outside and into what he _said_ was a taxi*. Then there was nothing, until he came to tied to a hotel armchair, watching his captors lay out a set of knives.

“Mr. Thomas Mikkelson, isn’t it?”

He nods. Cooperate. Give them what they want and he can go home to his girlfriend.

“Y-yes.”

The man walks over, adjusting a skewed newspaper on the way, and sits down on the bed across from him.

“Head of the technology department of Clancy Incorporated, correct?”

“Yes.”

For a moment he thinks that means they’ve got the wrong guy, but then the man nods and says, “Excellent.”

What? What do they want with him?

The woman lays out a plastic bag and a cloth belt. What are those for? What do they want with him?

“Everything’s ready.” she says. Ready? Ready for what?

“Mr. Mikkelson, we are here because our customer wants you to disappear…but not before telling us everything you know about a new program you’ve been working on. We can either do this the easy way, in which you tell us nicely and we kill you quickly, or we can do it the hard way.” He lets the words hang for a moment. “Which would you prefer? Between you and me, I’d go the easy way.”

The woman drapes her arms across his shoulders, hands clasping loosely atop his chest, and he clings to that.

“I’ve got a girlfriend, man.” he whimpers. “Please…I’m gonna ask her to marry me…”

They look sadly at him before she says, “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes an abrupt, tragic miscarriage…”

“Please…”

“Followed by a horrible plane crash…no survivors, just as you were starting to work it out. And wouldn’t you know, she was on that plane, coming to see you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“We might.”

He doesn’t say anything. They exchange a look and stand up.

“Last chance, Mr. Mikkelson. Tom. This could be quick and easy or horribly painful.”

No. This is for the military, not for the highest bidder.

“No.”

“I gave you a choice. Didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“All right, then. That’s all I can do.”

“Yes.”

He opens his mouth to scream just as the plastic bag is whipped over his head and tied there with the belt. Joke’s on them, he was on the swim team in high school! He can hold his breath for a good long time.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take them long to figure that out-a few seconds past the ‘reasonable’ time, the man picks up a knife and makes a quick, precise slice across his belly. It’s not dangerous, but it hurts and he wasn’t expecting it.

He screams, realising too late what a terrible idea that is.

He’s just about to pass out when the bag comes off his head. Air! Sweet, glorious air.

“Well?”

He can’t say anything for a minute, can’t do anything but gulp in oxygen.

“It’s going to be a long day, I think.”

“Looks that way.”

And the bag goes back over his head.

* * *

His lungs ache and he’s got more slashes, but he’s taking some perverse pleasure in not letting them win. If they’re annoyed, it doesn’t show. For that matter, if they’re tired, it doesn’t show. Every inch the professionals, like him. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

“We ought to hook him up with Ms. Reisert.”

Her companion gives her a dirty look and begins to circle him.

“You are resilient, aren’t you?”

He says nothing. The man sighs and picks up a scalpel from the knife collection.

“No matter.”

The belt is wrestled in between his teeth and then there’s a deep, burning cut on his hairline. The scalpel moves along and he feels, with mounting horror, the sensation of his forehead peeling free from his skull.

The scalpel draws back.

“Nod if you’re ready. Say nothing if you want me to keep cutting.”

God…

The scalpel digs back into his face and he nods frantically.

“Better.”

The belt falls from his mouth and he promptly gets a mouthful of blood.

“Sorry. Hang on.” Something wraps around his forehead, pushing the loose skin back into place. “There we go.”

He talks. He talks until his voice is hoarse and beyond that. They record it and write it down.

“Very good.” she says. “Matches up where it should, fills in the blanks.”

“You knew!” He can’t help it. It just slipped out.

“We knew bits. Enough to make sure you weren’t lying.”

His stomach begins to shake and he pukes, the vomit a mixture of blood and bile. They look at it, frowning, and the woman removes a tube of lipstick from her purse.

“I have this made special for me.” she says. “It’s called ‘The Kiss of Death’. Pretty colour, isn’t it?”

It’s red. He doesn’t care, but he thinks it looks like blood. She puts it on and comes over. Before he can pull away, she’s lifted his face, dabbed his mouth with a wet washcloth, and kissed him.

It hits him in minutes that she’s poisoned him-something about the taste, maybe. He heaves, his body desperately trying to get it out, but all he does is tilt the chair forward enough to land face down in the puddle of sick on the floor. He can hear them talking, the sound sluggish and disjointed.

“Good batch.”

“I know. Let me wash it off and let’s get this cleaned up.”

There’s nothing more after that.

THE END

 

*It was a taxi. Technically. On that ‘never lies’ thing…parent killer? I mean, it’s not _that_ funny, even to a drunk person, and he never said, ‘just kidding’ or anything…


	22. Yesterday to Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like he said ‘just kidding!’ or anything…and I know it’s not his name, but seeing as we didn’t get a real one…ignoring that. *shrugs* It’s fanfiction, for crying out loud. If it were canon, I’d be a tad bit richer, wouldn’t I? Title from the Audioslave song.

It was either the nagging or the shouting or one too many cuffs to the back of the head. He couldn’t say which. He didn’t care to try. All he knew was that the buzzing in his head, that steadily growing wish for them to just SHUT UP finally exploded.

He took dear old Dad out first-took up a dinner knife just as he swung over to shut him up, slashed his palm.

And then stabbed him in the eye, leaving him to slump forward into his soup.

Mother fled, fled into the street, screaming for help. He chased her down

_Shut up shut UP SHUT UP **SHUT UP!**_

and dragged her back, getting bruised and scraped on the way.

This was all her fault. She stood by, she let this happen. And she gave him this stupid name, made him a target for torment. This was her fault, and he was done.

He tried to pull the knife from Dad’s eye but had some trouble, not helped by having to pin the thrashing bitch against the table. He left it there, picked up hers, and jammed it through her throat. It went in easy-not as easy as the eye, but still.

She gurgled, tried to say something that might have been his name.

“Argh…sorrgn…”

He scoffed and straightened up, realising for the first time that he was absolutely _spattered_ in blood. These jeans would have to go, so would the shirt. Shame, that.

“I always did hate this name.” he informed her. “Sadist.”

She looked at him, eyes bulbous and red. She tried to pull the knife from her throat but it didn’t come.

He left the room.

He had packing to do.

THE END


	23. Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s only a few ways to move up in their world, you know. You wanna see something pretty? Look up ‘NBC Hannibal Mason Verger’.

The door creaks open and the man peers in. They’re here, all right-dead asleep like normal people, burrowed under the blankets. He leaves the lights off and creeps in, shutting the door softly behind him.

He draws a gun and fits it with the silencer (Hollywood grade, custom made), aims briefly, and fires twice.

It is finished.

He removes the silencer and crosses the room. One should never be sloppy-always check.

He grasps the comforter and rips it back-just as hands grasp his ankles and yank him off his feet. He goes down with a cry, striking the nightstand on the way and cutting his head open.

“You could’ve knocked, old boy.” The hands release his ankles and she crawls out from under the bed, gets to her feet. “Thanks for the help, Jackson.”

“You had him.”

He represses a shudder at that horrible, rasping voice.

“Regardless.”

There’s a hacking chuckle from the darkness and the lamp goes on.

He shot pillows. The people are standing over him, looking decidedly unamused.

“Hello.”

He swallows hard. He’s dead. And it won’t be a pretty death, either.

“Look…”

He’s hauled up and tossed into a chair, his hands cuffed safely behind his back. There’s a large sheet of plastic under him.

“Did someone send you?”

He could lie, but it wouldn’t do him any good.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

She hands him a knife. He accepts it, circles the chair.

“Quite rude, you know, breaking in like this. We could have been otherwise…occupied.”

“Jackson, just get it over with.”

“Why?” The knife touches his jaw hinge. “If others are getting ideas…”

He has time to scream before the tip of the knife plunges inwards, severing the tendons and slicing back. It glances off his teeth and hits his tongue, but the tight grip on his throat prevents him from making too much noise.

The pain dazes him, but not enough that he doesn’t feel the knife sliding out.

“What do you think, Jill? Classical or abstract?”

“Classical.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

He’s not braced for the knife to plunge into the other side, and he blacks out then and there.

* * *

When he comes to himself, everything is numb. His face feels wet, very wet, and something is dripping into his mouth. He tries to spit it out and finds he can’t purse his lips.

“Good morning.” She holds up a scalpel. “You got a makeover.”

A magnifying mirror is held up and he screams, hoarse shrieks that do not sound human.

They’ve removed his face, gone around it like kids cutting on the dotted line and taken it off.

“I don’t think he likes it.”

“He has bad taste, that’s all.” She frowns. “Shut him up, he’ll wake the neighbors.”

Before he can squirm away, a chopstick rams through his throat and his voice is silenced.*

“Much better.” The mirror lowers. “What now? Castration?”

“There are lines that I will not cross.”

Like it matters now! The bastards took his face! He can see it now, in a sad, fleshy lump on the plastic by his feet.

“Men.” she scoffs. “Maybe we’re done, then.”

“Maybe.”

Before he can do anything, he’s uncuffed, wrapped in the plastic, and lugged towards the window.

“On three.” They heft him up and he’s resting on something hard and thin. His face sticks to the plastic. “One…two…three!”

And then he’s falling, falling…

He lands hard, feels his back break, and mercifully feels nothing more.

THE END

 

 

 

* See? Jackson can appreciate foreign techniques. He still won’t like it if you mention The Pen, though.


	24. Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviates from what little canon I have set up. Written for fun and feels. Not sorry.

It was only a matter of time before the company decided to retire him. That last job…what a mess. He could not be allowed to continue, it was too much of a risk.

He knew-strolled into the main office one afternoon and told him not to waste the effort on being subtle. He’d behave. Even stay here, if they liked, until they had everything settled. He did, however, have one last request.

“Have Jill do it.”

They granted said request, and so it came to pass that they led him from the room he’d been kept in to another room, a cold cement room.

“Get out.”

“But…”

“I don’t like an audience.”

They left but stayed outside in case of a problem. They needn’t have bothered-he flopped down on the table of his own accord, let her fasten the straps. A mere formality, of course.

“Surprised you took the easy way out.”

“They’re always more nervous about handling _complete_ corpses.”

And what could he say, he’d never relished behind shot in the head and dumped in the river.

She measured out a sedative and injected him with it. It was a strong one-only a few minutes passed before his eyelids grew heavy and his vision blurred.

“You look tired.”

He forced a nod.

“A bit.”

She perched at the edge of the gurney, bent over to brush his hair out of his eyes.

“One thing…where’d you put the handcuff keys?”

“With the spare car keys.”

“Thanks.”

He managed what was honestly meant to be a smile.

“Good-night, Jackson.”

“Night, Jill.”

She kissed him, slid the other needle in his arm.

Five minutes later, she opened the door.

“All done, gentlemen. Get him out of here.”

With that, she kissed the M.E. on the cheek and left without a backwards look.

THE END


	25. Beginning

Brr. It’s always so cold down there. And grimy. She knows it’s clean, it’s not that, but it always feels so _icky_. Must be all the death. And that room serves as an…interrogation…room sometimes, that probably doesn’t help.

Everything on her now needs a wash, even though she’s only worn the bra once. Can’t be helped.

She’s just tossed her shirt in the hamper when she notices the drapes are open. Not that she cares, but parents of small children are such prudes.

She pulls them shut (though if any small children are up this high and looking, that’s on them) just as the door opens and closes.

“Jill.”

She turns around. He looks a little the worse for wear-probably got smuggled out in a body bag. Ha.

“You don’t look bad, for a dead man.”

Jackson shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up.

“Didn’t you always tell me to leave a pretty corpse?”

Is it so terrible that she wishes he’d had a _little_ more trouble getting out? She’d been hoping to enjoy a nice, long bubble bath. **In peace.**

“Good for you.” She takes off her shoes and brushes by him to put them away. “The sedative didn’t last long, I see.”

“My mouth is a little numb, actually.”

Hm. That has…possibilities.

“Poor _baby_.” She pushes him onto the bed. “I am going to take a shower. Stay out or I’ll put you back in that morgue.”

She’s just shut the door when he calls out, “I wouldn’t mind if you arranged an asphyxiation mishap!”

She isn’t exactly _aiming_ for him, but she’s satisfied nonetheless when her bra smacks him in the face, emergency pocket knife still very much inside.

* * *

There is one reason, and one reason only, that this went so smoothly-they wanted it to. There’s only one way to move up in this company, and their employer has gotten far too cozy-comfy up there at the top. It’s time to retire, and he’s always said he hated the beach.

The issue, initially, was that catching him off-balance was difficult. He didn’t get up there on luck, after all. But dead men showing up in one’s home will shock even the best-trained individual, if only for a moment. And a moment is all they need.

So could you really blame them for seeing an opportunity and grabbing on tight?

By the time she gets out, he’s half-undressed and sprawled out on the bed, eating a pack of Sour Patch Kids.

“How’d you get out?”

“Body bag.”

Called it!

She swipes a red one-reds are always the best-and stretches out beside him.

“Want a shower?”

“Did you leave me hot water?”

“No.”

“It can wait.” He arches his back and something cracks. “Thank your cousin* for hooking you up.”

“Next time she’s in Arkham I’ll get hold of her.”

He says nothing, just traces one finger lazily along a scar on her ribs.

“I wasn’t sure you’d go through with it.” he admits at last. She says nothing, just thinks of the other needle, the one she’d actually uncapped before changing her mind.

“But you didn’t fight me.”

“Mm.”

He yawns and his eyes close.

“I’d have told you.” This much is true. “Before you died, I’d have told you I didn’t switch them.”

“That’s reassuring.” The finger leaves her ribs as his hand slides downwards. “Hot shower?”

“Mm-hm.” He stops. “What’re you doing?”

“Why do you even have shorts with snaps?”

“They were cute and on sale and they’re really soft.”

And they piss him off to no end, because he can never get them off without looking, but she’ll keep that to herself. Much like the front-fastening bra (see, men should always look before grabbing!), it’s nice to have some clothes that cause undue rage and confusion.

Next week. They’ll pay him a- _god_ -a visit next week. But she’s busy now.

Yes, quite busy.

THE END

*Kitty's got connections. Namely, Jonathan. Who considered slipping them a free sample of fear toxin instead. (Kitty didn't find that as amusing as he did.)


	26. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, hair-in-mouth is a horrible feeling.

The heater went out, and they were forced from their preferred sleeping position (nice, big space between them, no touching of any kind) to a miserable one (clustered together like a couple in a romance novel).

Sleep is not happening tonight, but it’s too cold to have sex for warmth-they tried already and it was just not happening.

“It wouldn’t kill you to get a haircut.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s everywhere.”

“Oh, wahh.”

Christ, it’s cold. Why does it have to be so cold? And why _now_ , when they’re bruised and sore and not at all prepared for this?

“Seriously, would it kill you to put it up?”

“It’s a blanket of warmth, leave it alone.”

“Jill-”

“If you’d shut up, it wouldn’t be in your mouth.”

He jabs a still-healing bruise on her abdomen and feels a little better about his predicament. He changes his mind a minute later when she moves, digs cold toes into his ankle.

“Stop it.”

“Then let me sleep.”

“Get your hair out of my face!”

“Shut up and it won’t be a problem!”

She rolls over and glares at him. He glares right back.

“I have no body fat to spare, leave my hair alone. It’s warm.”

“I don’t have any either, and I’m wasting energy trying to get it away.”

“Too bad.”

They glare for a minute more before she rolls over and scrunches back up against him, arms crossed.

“Shut up and let me sleep.”

How long do dead bodies stay warm for again?

Not long enough, he decides. He’ll stick it out. He’s been in worse conditions.

But not many.

They lay there in silence before she elbows him in the ribs.

“Stop breathing so loudly.”

“I’m breathing!”

“It’s loud, knock it off!”

Just to spite her, he breathes louder. She says nothing, just squirms a bit until he ends up with a mouthful of hair.

This is going to be a long night.

THE END


	27. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jill has no sense of modesty. None. The ‘Strip of Shame’ (trope in which the captor(s) have their victim, usually a woman, strip for humiliation purposes) does not work. She’ll just throw her clothes at you and mock you for not looking this good/having an ugly date.

It took some time, but she weaseled her way into the Boss’s house one Friday night for dinner and…dessert.  
She dressed with care-short, low-cut black dress (easily removed, of course), shiny black heels, leather jacket. Her necklace-the spare key to her handcuffs, gold-plated-hung down between her breasts, just out of view.  
Well, unless you were looking.  
“You look stunning.”  
That was rather the idea, but she kept her mouth shut about that.  
“Thank you.”  
Dinner included wine, and she managed to refill his glass more times than he probably would have preferred. She let him top hers off, but by dinner’s end he was weaving and she was not.  
Good.  
They retreated to a richly-decorated library for coffee and cake, and before she was really prepared for it he was on the couch next to her, stroking her thigh. Ugh. A little bit of finesse went a long way for a girl, had he never learned that? A bit of flattery, a chaste kiss or two, maybe a bit of hair-fiddling…she didn’t much care for those either, but it was the principle of the thing.  
“You’re a very lovely lady, Miss Waters. I can still remember when you were new for us.”  
“Can you really?” Calm. Keep calm. A few more minutes of this and it would be time for phase two. “What did you think of me then?”  
She bit her lower lip and scooted onto his lap, wishing more than ever that she could risk outright strangulation.  
“I thought you had potential.” He reached out and plucked at the chain around her neck, drew it up. “Quite a bit, actually.”  
She forced a throaty laugh and shifted a bit.  
“Oh?”  
He brushed a strand of hair back from her face.  
“I thought you’d be going places.”  
“Am I still?”  
“That’s up to you.”  
The message was clear.  
“Well, let me freshen up and we’ll…talk business.”  
He let her go and she felt him watching her walk away. Once she was a safe distance from the library, she unlocked the front door and nipped into the toilet to shed her dress and apply new lipstick. The shoes would stay, she decided. What good were they if not as a distraction?  
Two minutes should be enough, she thought, to get him very distracted. She’d dug up the lace, for heaven’s sake. The lace. If that didn’t do it, he was so far in the closet that he may as well be in Narnia.  
She sighed and went back in.  
Nope, no closet here. Good. But why, oh why did he have to strip? She looked good. He…not so much.  
Maybe she should’ve had some more to drink.  
“Like what you see?”  
He nodded. She kicked the door shut behind her and sat down beside him.  
“About that promotion…”  
He kissed her. Too much wine did not kissing skills make and it was an effort not to kick him off. No matter-at least he’d gone for the lips. That would stop him in his tracks soon enough.  
She grabbed onto that thought and held on tight.  
“Mm…”  
Slowly-much too slowly for her liking-he fell back, confused and gasping for breath.  
“I can’t…”  
“Sorry.” She slid off of him. “I might have been a little misleading.”  
“I’d say you were.”  
He would have jolted, if he hadn’t been paralysed. As it was, he made a valiant effort to look through the back of his skull.  
“Rippner!”  
“Hi.”  
“Give me your jacket, I’m cold.”  
“Whose fault is that?” But he gave it to her anyway and leaned over the back of the couch. “This is awkward.”  
“How…”  
“I have nine lives.”  
What cologne was this? Not good. They’d be talking about this when they got home.  
“You son of a bitch!” He was starting to panic and she could see his legs twitching in an effort to get up. Too bad.  
“Accurate.” He unclasped the knife. “I don’t have a gold watch for you…will this do?”  
It was a shame, really. The blood would never come out of that lovely carpet.  
THE END


	28. First Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitate to call it a lemon, but…maybe? Related, anyway-you were warned. (Lime…maybe the word I want is lime.) Wrote it on a bet-got ten dollars. DON'T LOOK AT MEEEEE.

The first time they have sex, they’ve been on six dates (a personal record for her) and it skirts dangerously close to the line of ‘making love’. Spare her the agony. They all start off so cautious, murmuring little lies and doing whatever they think will get them a repeat performance. God. If she wanted gentle, she’s got hands and a VCR.

She’s certainly not going to be gentle with him.

He finds this out the hard way when she swats his hands away from her bra clasp (good boy, though, actually knew where it was) and tells him in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t strip, _now_ , there’ll be no touching of any kind whatsoever. Only looking, and that’s if she feels generous.

They start off against the wall and end up, about five minutes later, crumpled in a sweaty heap on the rug.

“How about dinner on Friday?”

* * *

The first time they bring out the knives is after their first assignment together, in some grimy hotel in the southern United States. They’re going back to New York tomorrow, and Jill’s glad, because the humidity here is stifling.

They’d been arguing at the time, and perhaps it was the humidity, or maybe the adrenaline from earlier, but they’d gone at each other like a pair of terriers.

He’d gotten the best of her, in the end, pinning her to the bed with his knife at her throat, and now she’s not quite sure that he won’t go through with it after all.

She’s not sure what she’d do, in his place.

She never knew what a thrill it was, trying not to get her throat slit while still being an active participant.

They add it into their personal training routine. You never know when it might come in handy.

* * *

She didn’t exactly ask him if she could tie him up. She just did-took advantage of his desperation, of his being much more interested in begging her to _fuck me,_ _please, god, Jill_ to get their belts and…secure him.

He wasn’t particularly happy about it at first-threatened to kill her slowly and painfully, actually-but she’d always been fond of lollypops.

He found this out the hard way.

* * *

The first time they’re careful is the night before he’s scheduled to die. They didn’t want to let her in, but she pulled rank (and a gun) and they left in a hurry.

There’s a plan, it’ll be fine, but for once they take it easy, whispering such nice lies to each other.

Two days later they dig out the knives and the handcuffs and agree-in a roundabout fashion-to never, ever make that mistake again.

THE END


	29. What Doesn't Kill Us Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of ways to end that sentence. I was listening to Matthew Good’s ‘Born Losers’, which completes it with ‘just makes us better whores’. Make of that what you will. Takes place very early on-they might have been in love, even, or what they take for love.

“Are you ever sorry?”

He lifts his head from her chest and raises an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“The things we’ve done.”

“We’ve done a lot of things.” He sighs and lets his head drop. “Be specific.”

“The Work.”

“Oh.” He slides a finger through the film of sweat on her stomach and presses it to her lips. “No. Why?”

“Curious.” The finger slides down her chin and neck to the hollow of her throat. “Just curious.”

“Are you?”

“No.” She buries her fingers in his hair and a low groan slips from his throat. “Maybe there’s something wrong with us.”

He shrugs and leans up to kiss her, softer than before.

“Maybe everyone else is inferior.”

That one she’ll believe, though whether it’s belief or desperation is hard to say. Maybe both.

He settles back down, one arm draped lazily across her waist. It’s rare that he does this and she’s not sure she likes it now.

But supposing there is something wrong with them, there is no one else. No one else she’d rather entrust her life to, even though she’s not sure he won’t shatter it.

She’s not so sure she won’t shatter his, either.

“G’night, Jill.”

She lets her hand trail from his head to between his shoulders-she can feel his heartbeat now.

She has the power to stop it-there’s a knife within arm’s reach, there always is. But he trusts her not to, just as she trusts him not to choke the life out of her.

What a game they play.

“Night, Jackson.”

And she jerks the lamp chain and lets her hand fall again, his skin warm against hers.

She does not dream.

THE END

**  
**

****


	30. Strip

She ignores the whistles that started up when she unbuttoned her shirt-what was left of it-and tosses it away. This is all part of the plan. Granted, she’s not thrilled about her current predicament, but they’ll regret it soon enough.

But if he doesn’t get here when he’s supposed to, and things go sour, he’s going to regret it more.

The skirt has survived-bloody, it is true, but still-and she takes care to fold it when she takes it off.

“Throw it aside, bitch!”

“I take care of my clothing.” she snaps, smoothing out the last of the creases and laying it down. He’ll be going first, but not in the way he thinks.

He leers at her, makes a rude gesture.

“Does your mother look this good?”

There’s a chorus of ‘oooo’ and he backhands her across the face.

_Any time now._

“Shut up and strip.”

She’s surprised he’s not the ‘rip clothing off without asking’ type, but then she supposes she’s just spoiled.

Her bra clasp is slick with blood and the broken index finger isn’t helping. She manages it in the end, though, tossing it onto the skirt.

She’s just hooked her unbroken finger into the elastic of her panties when gunfire breaks out. He turns, just a fraction, but a fraction is all she needs to disable him.

She may or may not have been a little rough with the family jewels, but it isn’t fatal. It can’t be-they need him. God knows why, but the Boss has requested his presence for dinner.

A pale finger holds her bra out to her and she swipes it with a, “You took your sweet time.”

“Traffic.”

Liar.

Their target groans and spits at her toes.

He’s unconscious before he knows what hit him.

THE END


	31. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and inspiration from the 10 Years song of the same name.

“Sir?”

“Richards?”

“We…we couldn’t get there in time. They didn’t make it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very. Rippner and Waters are dead.”

“Get out of there. Do not attempt recovery.”

BANG!

**Two hours earlier…**

It’s been so, so long since they’ve felt anything but lust and exasperated fondness for each other. If there was ever anything else.

Now, though, facing death, there’s something oddly peaceful about facing it together.

They sit, silent and unmoving, water lapping at their ankles. They’ll drown here, like some pathetically cliché backstory couple in a romance novel. Somehow the urge to cry and cling to each other is not present.

“I always thought it’d be much faster.” she says at last. “Nothing like this.”

So did he, really. He’d expected to be shot. Maybe, if he were spectacularly unlucky, to linger in a grimy hotel room for a few days before dying.

“This is very slow going.”

“Do you want to yell at them to hurry up?”

Not really, actually.

She slumps against his shoulder, hair falling about her face. After a minute, she reaches down and pulls her heels off.

“I’d always hoped it’d be you.” she says softly. “In the end.”

He’d always thought they’d kill each other, that someone would come in to find them having stuck knives in each other’s ribs.

“So did I.”

The water is cold, but he’s determined not to show discomfort.

She’s warm. She’s warm and he remembers, once, lying in bed with her and wondering if he’d fucked an angel.

That had been before everything, when he’d only had two murders to his name, committed out of desperation and a desire to save himself. Now he’s lost count and he knows damn well that she’s not even a fallen angel, she’s a devil.

But still, he remembers once that he’d been sick, so sick and she’d let herself in and made him chicken soup.

He might have loved her then. Did she love him? Did she ever?

The water is nearly to his knees now. It’s rising faster, faster than it has been. At this pace they’ve got an hour, maybe less.

Christ, the water is cold. But she’s warm and it’s all he can do to resist pulling her up against him.

“You brought me a man’s heart.” she says suddenly. He remembers that. It had become their little joke, macabre though it was. “Said you needed yours, so this would have to do.”

“Yes.”

Her face tilts up to look at him.

“That was very sweet.”

This can’t be healthy. But it’s true, he supposes.

“Yes.”

She shivers and cuddles up against him, hand pressed against his chest. He blinks, wonders if she’s cold as well.

He ends up putting an arm around her.

It’s been a long time. Sex does not count, not their version.

The water rises over his knees now. It’s very cold.

She reaches up, turns his face to hers, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. It’s nothing like their first, but somehow that’s okay.

Nothing more is said, and within half an hour the water has risen halfway up his chest.

He’s numb. Numb and cold. He rather wishes this would just be over with. Hell is warm, if there is a Hell. He doubts it, but one never truly knows, do they?

He turns to her again, catches her light-blue lips with his own. Chaste is all very well, but they may as well end this the way it started.

“Jack-”

“Want to go for dinner sometime?”

She laughs then, grips his shirt and pulls him closer.

“Seven-thirty.” she says. “Don’t be late.”

He’s about to say something else when the door flies open and a voice shouts, “Rippner! Waters! You down there?”

What.

Rescue?

Really?

“A little busy, Richards!”

“You both all right?”

“Get us out! And say one word, just one…”

He’ll say one word, because he can get away with it. But not here and not now.

A rope is dropped and they’re pulled out, dripping wet and shaking.

“They send you?”

“Yeah. You all right? No broken bones?”

“Just very cold.” He fingers his gun, glad to have it in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Rippner?”

“I need you to make a call.”

THE END


	32. Run-Ins

It's all very routine. Go in, make it look like a suicide, get out. Ah, politics.

            She's on her way down the hall, listening for any signs of life, when she turns a corner, bumps into someone, and has her gun on them before she realises who it is.

            "What are you doing here?"

            "What are _you_ doing here?"

            They lower their weapons and glare at each other.

            "I'm working, what does it look like?"

            He gives her a look that's absolutely _dripping_ with irritation and snaps, "I have been here all day, when did you get here?"

            "Twenty minutes ago."

            "Why."

            "Heard there was a suicide."

            "Funny, I heard the same...oh."

            "Oh."

            How very annoying. She hates it when they do this.

            They turn away, phones already in hand.

            "I need the boss...I don't care if he's on the other line, I need him now." That insipid secretary babbles something about waiting just one more minute. "If you don't put me through, you'll be replaced."

            Behind her, Jackson's grumbling about a busy line. Ha.

            "Thank you, darling... _you_. You _idiot_ , you know I don't like unexpected partnerships!"

            "Oh, Jilly-girl, it's not so bad."

            "What is this, some excuse for a team-builder?"

            "Call it a healthy challenge."

            The phone is swiped from her hand and she whirls, angry, only to end up in a headlock. Damn.

            "Pull this sort of stunt again and don't be surprised when the operation fails." She winds her legs around his and nearly brings him crashing down. He opens his switchblade and presses it against her face in retaliation. "I don't care whose idea it was, just don't do it again."

            He hangs up, folds the knife up and lets her go. She socks him in the shoulder-it's the only quiet attack she has right now.

            "Now what."

            "Now you go home and I go upstairs and finish the job."

            "Excuse me?" She swipes the phone back. "I think you're confused. You meant, _you_ go home and _I_ go upstairs."

            "I have been here all. Damn. Day. Part of that day was spent in an unused wardrobe to avoid being seen."

            "Not my problem. Go home and take a nice shower, work the kinks out."

            "No."

            There, now, _this_ is why she hates it when this happens. It always becomes a hassle.

            They stare at each other, both clearly considering knocking the other out and carrying on alone.

            "Flip you for it?"*

            "Tempting, but too much noise."

            There's a noise upstairs and they flinch, press themselves against the wall and try not to breathe. The noise does not happen again-old house settling, then-and they relax again.

            "I'm going up there. You can go or not, your choice."

            She goes to step away and he grabs her wrist.

            "Go. Home."

            "Make me." She flicks the circular scar on his throat and he winces, lets go of her hand. "If you can."

            With that, she starts for the stairs. After a minute, a shadow moves and she knows he's following her.

            Or planning to knock her out and stuff her in a broom closet. Could be either.

            The ascent is silent apart for one creaky stair and five minutes later they've let themselves into their target's bedroom, tied their hands together with a silk scarf (can't have rope burns on the palms tipping the police off, after all) and wrapped a sturdy belt around their neck.

            Ten minutes later, they're hanging from the fan, a chair kicked away and the silk scarf securely back around Jill's neck where it belongs.

            Half an hour later, they're on the bus going home as though nothing happened.

THE END

 

 

*No, not a coin. Each other.


	33. Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about 90% certain Jill does this to be a little bitch.

Everything went to Hell roughly thirty minutes and twenty-nine seconds before he arrived. This is what happens when they send new people in first, without a senior agent to keep them in line.

            _Surrounded by idiots._

He ducks a clumsy attempted stabbing and sweeps his leg behind the girl's-and she _is_ a girl, a stupid, bubble-gum-pink wearing one-and brings her crashing down. He's just reaching for a gun when there's half a second of vibration in his pocket and his phone croons, "'Cause the boys in the hood are always hard/come talking that trash we'll pull your card/knowing nothing in life but to be legit/don't quote me boy, I ain't said shit..."*

            _One day, I will murder her._

"One moment." He forces a smile for the girl's benefit, fishes his phone out and flips it open. "What."

            "Hey, hon." He can hear that smug grin and his fingers tighten on the phone. It's crackly, though-it'll probably try to cut out. "You busy?"

            "Not particularly." The girl attempts to inch away and he grabs a fallen pipe, smacks it into her ankle. She screams and he turns away. "Hang on, no reception."

            "Mm-hm."

            He walks away, the screaming echoing badly, and ducks into another room.

            "Can you hear me now?"

            "Yeah. Hey, are you passing a store on the way home?"

            _Funeral home Mexican place known for food poisoning pawn shop that sells cocaine grocery store._

"Yes."

            "Can you nip in and get some coffee? I'm nowhere near one and we're out."

            They're out? Never mind, thank god she called.

            "Sure."

            There's a screech on her end.

            "Hang on." He stands still and hears the familiar **BANG!** over the line. "Sorry about him, wouldn't shut up. Will you be late?"

            "Shouldn't be."

            "Good. See you at home."

            "See you."

            He hangs up and wanders back to the room with the girl. She's moved a bit, towards the door, but not much. Her foot is backwards and swollen up like a balloon. She knows nothing-he knows a junior agent when he sees one, and he's not going to bother with her.

            "Sorry, sweetheart." he says, not sorry at all. "Just business."

            "No, please-"

            **BANG!**

He collars one of the new recruits on his way out.

            "Clean this up." he says coldly. "No traces, do I make myself clear?"

            "I-"

            "If I have to fix your mess again, we'll be having a _meeting_. Now get going, you've got two hours."

            He's actually got three, but what harm is there in throwing the fear of God into the man?

            "Yes, sir."

            "Good."

            Now. Coffee. Maybe Jill will be back when he gets there.

THE END

 

*The version used here is the...cover?...by Dynamite Hack. It's _hilarious_. (Jill set that, by the way-Jackson keeps trying to set it to a generic ringtone but she keeps setting it back.)


	34. Caught

It's his own fault. That's the real bitch of it, that it really _is_ his own fault. He can't even blame the agency.

            Jill is never going to let him hear the end of this.

            He leans his head back, feeling the cheap, splintery wood of the chair dig into the soft skin there, and resumes trying to get his wrists bloody enough to slip free of the ropes. So far, his great escape plan is not working.

            _Fuck me...and them..._

A sharp pain to the back of the head makes him sit up.

            "What."

            "Stop that."

            "Stop what?"

            "I know what you're doing." The man huffs at him and walks around to smack his hands with his walking stick. Dammit. "Stop it."

            He stops twisting his hands and leans his head back again.

            Stupidity. That's what got him into this mess, he got sloppy. Thought for sure he could handle the guy at the back of the line. Yeah, joke's on him-the guy at the back of the line had a syringe in his pocket and knew how to use it.

            Lesson learned. Don't try to garrote the guy at the back of the line.

            "How much will they pay for you?"

            Probably nothing. They can't afford this kind of mess. If he wants out, he'll have to do it himself-and then finish the job so's they don't retire him for failure.

            And this was such a _nice_ day, too.

            His new friend goes to get a drink and Jackson starts rubbing his wrists against the ropes again. It should hurt, and probably will later, but these guys are smart-they've trussed him up like a damn turkey. He can move his head and that's about it.

            Never, under any circumstances, is he infiltrating an American base again. They can have rivals. Rivals never hurt anybody. Since when does the organization have to be the _only_ organization?

            His shoulders are beginning to hurt. He's been in this position for too long.

            There's the sound of a gun being loaded and he'll admit to _maybe_ being a little alarmed. It's not that he's scared to die, exactly, but...well...he really doesn't _want_ to. He had plans for this weekend.

            Also, he doesn't want to be shot again, fatal or not. Being shot hurts like a bitch, and no way is this room sanitary. He gets shot here, he gets infected, and that's _not_ fun.

            Maybe he can talk the nice man into just knocking him around a little bit.

            "I can't tell you anything if I'm dead."

            There's a low chuckle and the guy turns back around.

            "I don't need you to tell me anything, kid."

            Well. Shit.

            "But I could. I have passwords, files-"

            "Christ. You get caught and then you try to bring everyone else down with you. Nice guy."

            Hey. Self-preservation is a thing. And he never said they'd be _good_ passwords-his email password isn't the key to untold riches. Just some spam. Jill keeps using it for freebies, so he's been getting flooded with weird women's ads.

            "I'm new."

            "They sent a new guy?" He sounds incredulous. "Whatever."

            He shrugs.

            "It was supposed to be easy."

            And it was. And would have been, if he hadn't tried to garrote the guy at the back of the line.

            Wait. Can he blame Jill...no. No, she said that was a stupid plan.

            Dammit.

            He sighs and lets his head fall forward. Cold metal shoves itself under his chin and forces it back up, making him really _look_ at his new friend.

            It's an older man, just going grey at the temples, with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a brown suit. He looks harmless. Jackson knows better.

            "Whatever, kid." He leans over, ruffles his hair. He resents that, a bit-just because he's young does not mean he doesn't know how to inflict horrifying injuries on people. He's just tied up right now, that's all. "Glare all you want, it's not getting you jack shit."

            "Fuck off."

            He pays for that one when the man withdraws the gun and backhands him across the face.

            "Shut your goddamn mouth, kid." He straightens his jacket. "I'm just waiting for confirmation, then that'll be the end of you."

            "Maybe they'll want to keep me?"

            "Somehow I doubt it." Another hair-ruffle. "Just sit tight and be quiet, and I won't have to hurt you."

            Yeah, right.

            There's a low buzzing noise and the man turns away, drawing a cell phone from his jacket. He might be able to dodge the shot, if he's quick enough to overturn the chair, but after that...

            Okay. He'll overturn the chair, hopefully knock the man over, and-

            The gun is pressed against his forehead and he looks up, suddenly having no faith in his plan whatsoever.

            "They don't want you."

            He knew they wouldn't.

            "Sorry, kid."

            No, he's not.

            _You get one shot. Don't fuck it up._

He braces his feet against the floor and tenses his upper body against the ropes. Three...two...one...

            **BANG!**

THE END


	35. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to leave it like that. But then I had a wonderful, awful idea.  
> Adrenaline is a magical thing, especially in fiction. (Also, when you've had the kind of training Jackson's had, you can take some abuse. Maybe I'll go into that one day.)

**BANG!**

The chair hits the floor as the bullet hits the wall.

            "Christ, kid." This is not going as planned. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

            The chair cracked when he forced it over backwards, and now he's in a _very_ awkward position with a gun still pointed at his head.

            "It was an accident?"

            "Yeah. Sure."

            The gun is cocked and leveled again, and this time he doesn't wait, just jerks the chair over. It cracks a little more, but not enough to let him up, god dammit-

            "Hold still, you little prick!"

            Like hell he will.

            He jerks the chair over again and this time it dies-don't buy cheap shit, see what that gets you?-leaving the ropes loosely tangled around his legs. The ones binding his wrists are still very sturdy.

            _Can't have everything..._

The man fires again-or tries to. The gun jams.

            _If there's guardian angels, mine needs a raise._

It only takes a few seconds for the problem to be remedied, but a few seconds is all he needs.

            He kicks himself loose-ugh, right ankle's asleep, for fuck's sake-and scrambles up, slightly off-balance thanks to his arms still being behind his back. But wobbly running is better than no running, and they actually did train him for it. A hungry dog is great motivation, really.

            He dodges another shot and spots the glint of a knife.

            _Hello, beautiful._

He dives for it, knocks it off the table and into sweaty hands.

            _Come on, come on-_

**BANG!**

_SHIT FUCKING HELL_

He drops, more from the force of the bullet than anything, and before he can even try to get up the man's over him with a foot on his chest. Shoulder. Not good. Very not good.

            The ropes at his wrists finally fray apart, but no amount of squirming will get the man off and his left shoulder's out of action. He tries anyway and gets his hand smacked aside. The knife flies off somewhere and he's pulled halfway up by his shirt. The sudden movement sets his shoulder shrieking and everything goes blurry.

            "Was that an accident, too?" The gun presses up under his chin, forcing his head back. "Sorry, kid."

            "I'm not your fucking kid."

            "Huh-"

            He sweeps his leg behind the man's knees and sends them both down. The gun clatters to the ground and goes off-the bullet narrowly misses his head.

            _Make that two raises._

He grabs for it and scrambles up. He doesn't like guns very much-they're not reliable and he's not the greatest shot. But this? Point-blank? A baby couldn't miss.

            The man's up now, up and pissed, and he doesn't even bother to aim-just empties the gun and lets it drop.

            His face is warm. Everything's warm. He lifts his hand and finds that he's spattered with blood.

            Oh.

            Heh. Bull's-eye.

            Now. If the very nice corpse on the floor will excuse him, he has a job to finish.

* * *

            Two more floors. Two more floors and twenty steps and then he'll be inside and he can lie down and sleep forever.

            Why is this elevator so slow...

            His shoulder hurts. He managed to ignore it until he got out of there, but now the adrenaline's worn off (along with the ibuprofen he took from his guard's pocket), and he's _tired._

_Ding!_

Surely the elevator doesn't need to make so much noise.

            He stumbles out and barely misses banging his shoulder against the door. Twenty steps. Maybe thirty, the way he's moving.

            He stops ten steps in and slumps against the wall, breathing hard. Almost there. He should...should get the key out.

            He's just trying to dig it out when the door opens and their down-the-hall-neighbour, Karen Tibbs, pokes her head out. Karen's in her mid-seventies and is practically the epitome of 'grandmother'-plump and nosy and determined to stuff them full of baked goods.

            Shit.

            "Jackson?" She comes out. "Jackson, goodness gracious, what happened to you?"

            "Got in a fight."

            "A _fight_? Aren't you a bit old for that?"

            "They started it. I think they were drunk or something."

            "Oh. Oh, _honey._ "

            No. No, no, no, he is not in the mood for this.

            "It looks worse than it is, I just need to lie down." _Please go away now._ "Really."

            "Is someone home?"

            Maybe?

            "Jill should be there."

            If he's lucky. If not, he'll live.

            Probably.

            "Okay..." She doesn't sound happy. "If you need anything..."

            "I've got a phone. I'm fine."

            She doesn't go back in until he makes his way to his door and gives her what he hopes appears to be a friendly wave. The key doesn't want to fit, but eventually he manages to get it in and swings the door open.

            Jill is home-the shower's running. He's not in the mood to try to get her out, and if he's going to be honest, he probably can't anyway. That's fine. He'll just get out of these bloody clothes and see how bad his shoulder looks.

            It feels like it went through, which is a blessing, but it also hurts like a bitch. He's _not_ looking forward to the physical therapy.

            He drops his keys on the table (blood comes off of keys, right?) and glances at the flash drive he found. He won't be mentioning it to the organization. Call it insurance, whatever.

            Never mind. It can wait.

            He jams it back in his pocket and finds out how much of a pain it really is to undo a tie one-handed. He tries to use his other hand-five seconds, really, he can do five seconds-and the sudden pain sends him slumping against the wall and sliding to the floor, vision greyed out.

            The shower shuts off and he thinks he should probably get up. But...

            That's not going to happen. He's just going to sleep right here, thanks.

            Okay. Two minutes. Two minutes and he'll get up. He can have the shower now, get the blood off and stitch himself up. But two minutes first, let the room stop spinning...

            "Jackson?" There's the sound of a gun being set down. "They said you were dead."

            "Sorry."

            She sighs and nudges him with damp toes.

            "Up. You're bleeding on the rug."

            That's why it's burgundy.

            All the same, he grips the hall table and levers himself up. The room decides to rock like a damn boat and he ends up clinging to the table to stay on his feet.

            "What'd you do."

            "I think I need stitches."

            She reaches up and adjusts her towel-turban before turning around and walking away.

            "Go get cleaned up."

            It takes over an hour to do so. It would take less time if she'd help, but she's more interested in her blow-dryer, her nighttime moisturizers, and whatever else lives in the jars on the sink. At least, until she gets a look at his shoulder.

            "What the hell is that?"

            "I got shot."

            "You tried the garrote, didn't you." He ignores her. "I told you so."

            "Shut up."

            "You're an idiot."

            "Are you going to help me or not?"

            She snickers and gets up, shoves him backwards on the bed. Ow. Too much movement.

            "Hold still. God, I can't believe you, I _told_ you a dozen times..."

            He drops his head back and looks at the ceiling. She's never going to let him forget this.

            Never.*

THE END

*This went down long before the film, so yes, she did-because she got better material.


	36. Neighbors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, the one that I rain down mundane-yet-awful punishment because I can. (Yes, Jackson, it’s punishment. You’re kind of a dick, this is Karma. Sorry.)

Jackson Rippner isn’t sleeping.

Moral sorts would point smugly and announce that it’s guilt, that his laundry list of victims is keeping him awake.

To them, he would say, ‘fuck off’.

No, it is not guilt that keeps him awake. Nor is it an injury, or an uncomfortable bed, or even simple insomnia. It is his neighbors. Or, more accurately, their toddler.

They have an infant, and that really isn’t bad. Oh, it cries sometimes, but by and large the parents are good at shutting it up. Babies are simple. Feed, change. That’s literally all it takes to shut them up. Toddlers, on the other hand…

This one hates bedtime. He knows this because every night it spends _hours_ screaming, hitting the walls, and basically making a nuisance of itself. For a while it wasn’t a problem, because he had a job out of the country. (When they said ‘travel opportunities’, they weren’t kidding.)

But now…now he’s been home for a while, and it has become _very_ apparent that this is a…problem.

Jill isn’t home, which makes this worse-when she’s not here, he can sprawl into the middle of the bed like a starfish and sleep until eleven. But not with that damn brat next door.

Banging on the wall gets the parents’ attention, all right-it gets them to bang back and shout that ‘he’s just a baby!’ Jackson disagrees. If it can walk, it is a toddler, and toddlers can be trained to shut up after midnight. That’s his personal opinion, anyway, and he can’t really prove it well-kids…don’t like him too much. They know. They see him and go quiet and step aside. So, to be fair, maybe they can’t be trained.

There’s a lull for five minutes and he’s _just_ thinking that the kid’s shut up when there’s the squeak of bedsprings and a shrill screech.

He lifts his head from his cushy pillow and stares at the wall, hoping to silence the noise through sheer willpower. He is not successful.

He drops his head, pulls another pillow over it, and wonders if he’ll get kicked out for pulling the fire alarm. Maybe not if he set a fire first…no, he’s not good at arson. He’s tried and all that seems to happen is a chair burns and the flames go out.

The screaming does not cease and he drags himself out of his nice, warm bed and shuffles to the balcony for a cigarette.

Ahh. That’s better. Below, a steady stream of cars form a river of light and ‘fucking asshat, watch your fucking driving!’

He smirks and leans on the railing, cigarette held loosely in his hand. He’s half-hoping the neighbors will pop their heads out and yell at him to stop smoking, give him a chance to tell them to shut their damn kid up, (Reddit would call that a Justice Boner), but they don’t. Humph.

“’Cause the boys in the hood are always hard…”

One day, he will throw her over this balcony and laugh as she lands on a car below.

“What.”

“I just wanted to tell you to please not murder the neighbors, that’s four bodies you’ll have to get rid of.”

“Shut up, Jill.”

She yawns, an exaggerated one designed to make him jealous. It works.

“I’m going to sleep now…in my nice, quiet, bed-”

He hangs up on her and turns his phone off. Bullshit, is what that is, complete bullshit.

The crying seems to have stopped and he risks going back inside. It’s…quiet. It’s well and truly quiet! At last!

On his way back to bed, he trips over the ottoman and crashes into the headboard with a horribly loud **thunk!**

The baby starts crying.

And then the toddler starts up again.

No. No. Why. _Why?_

He groans and pulls the blankets over his head.

_Somebody kill me._

THE END


	37. A Little Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when my flash drive freaked a couple’a years ago, this was one of the documents I…didn’t get back. I had a backup copy, and it’s not like I lost a lot, but still. Opening it was hard.
> 
> BUT then I had this thought at like, three in the morning after a fun bout of sleep paralysis, so here we are. Uh. Happy early Valentine’s Day? I guess?
> 
> Title from the Valerie Broussard song of that name.

Jill likes this one.

Or.

She wants to keep him. Like butterfly collectors do-shove him up against the wall, with…oh, she’s thinking a fencing blade, for romance’s sake…shoved through his heart.

It wouldn’t be very neat. Not like a real butterfly. But she thinks she wants that anyway.

Although. It would be…unfortunate, a little. Those eyes of his…they wouldn’t be right, dulled over like that. Maybe a jar…hmm.

She’s lying sort of near him, after, and he’s fiddling with her hair in a gesture she’d resent if she thought it represented any sort of attachment, but the truth of the matter is that Jackson fiddles with everything. Pencils, pen drives, keys, his pocket knife…

It feels nice and it’s not some sort of red flag for ‘I love you’ and ‘I think we should be exclusive’ or anything emotionally awful like that, so she’ll accept it. For the moment.

Rebecca used to do this. Beautiful, Disney-princess Rebecca. Blonde, blue-eyed (oh, great, she’s got a _type_ ), rosy-red lips that _couldn’t_ be natural but were anyway, somehow…

That car accident was a tragedy. But a necessary tragedy. She would have blabbed, about that man, and Jill’s not about to lose her bit of fun over a skittish little mouse.

She wonders, though, if those red lips made drowning look lovely, like they do in films.

Slender, fiddle-y fingers suddenly grip her hair a little harder and turn her head. Well, well. This is new.

“Did you want something?”

“Got bored, wanted to see what you’d do.”

She likes that. Likes this. No nonsense, no pretence about going out to dinner and acting like this is anything more than it is. Oh, there’s dinner, because fucking burns calories, but it’s an afterthought. A, ‘I’m hungry and you’re hungry and we both feel like Thai’ sort of arrangement.

“Be nice to me or you’ll lose a hand.” she says, only half-teasing, because it’s easier than you’d think, taking off a hand. Wrists are fragile, easier to snap and shatter so they’re in bits and you can just saw right through.

“I know.”

That’s new, too. This just got interesting. And, potentially, disappointing. She wasn’t really _ready_ to-literally-nail him to the wall.

She rolls over, feels things crack, and lets her hand hang off the bed-towards a gun that she shouldn’t have but, well…it’s so easy to get things you shouldn’t have.

And.

It’s not there. Well. Shit.

“Those aren’t just really, really realistic Halloween decorations in the other room, huh.” He’s not smart. You don’t just go and admit you know things. You keep your mouth shut and leave. “Where’d you get them?”

“Murder museum.”

He grins at her, loose and boyish and stupidly endearing. Or. It would be, if it reached his eyes at all.

“I killed my parents.” he says, casual as you please. “Over dinner. Two weeks before I met you.”

She wouldn’t believe him, if it weren’t for that casual tone and the still-tight grip on her hair. And. Well, she really doesn’t know much about him. She knows what he likes, and that a couple of times there’s been a blip of danger across her radar, like…she really can’t explain why, but…the best way she’s got to describe it is like a cat that’s supposedly friendly but…but you know it’s going to claw you.

“Aren’t you special.”

Now the grin reaches his eyes and he untangles his fingers from her hair, drops his hand back to the sheets.

“Is that why the sheets are black?”

“No.” Idiot. “The sheets are black because I liked the black ones.”

It’s probably bad that they’re not discussing their newfound similarity.

She really doesn’t care.

Besides, now maybe she won’t pin him to the wall with a fencing blade. Now he’s interesting again, interesting enough not to _keep_.

At least for now, anyway.

THE END


End file.
